The Project Gutenberg EBook of The World Before Them, by Susanna Moodie This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The World Before Them A Novel, Volume 1 (of 3) Author: Susanna Moodie Release Date: February 22, 2013 [EBook #42165] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD BEFORE THEM *** Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Sue Fleming and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) THE WORLD BEFORE THEM. A Novel. BY MRS. MOODIE, AUTHOR OF "ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH." IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1868. LONDON: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. Dorothy And Her Lover. 1 CHAPTER II. Heath Farm. 33 CHAPTER III. A Family Quarrel. 71 CHAPTER IV. Dorothy's Departure. 94 CHAPTER V. Dorothy's New Friends. 114 CHAPTER VI. News Of Gilbert. 139 CHAPTER VII. Midnight On The Heath. 157 CHAPTER VIII. A Strange Visitor. 179 CHAPTER IX. Dorothy Gains Further Knowledge Of The World. 220 CHAPTER X. Dorothy And Lord Wilton. 254 CHAPTER XI. Dorothy And Lord Wilton. 293 THE WORLD BEFORE THEM. CHAPTER I. DOROTHY AND HER LOVER. "But, Dolly! father will never give his consent, you know that;" said a male voice behind the hawthorn hedge, that skirted the deep, sandy lane that led to Heath Farm. The tone, reproachful and irritating, in which this was spoken, was answered in a sweet, calm voice. "Until he gives his consent, his frank, free consent, Gilbert, I cannot, and will not be your wife." "You are just as obstinate as the old man." "Ay, and as proud. But don't think for a moment, Gilbert, that I blame your father. Were I in his place, I might think just as he thinks. If he has higher views for his son than a marriage with a nameless girl like me, his son should be the last to find fault. Don't let love blind you to facts. Look them boldly in the face, as I do. I cannot forget what I am, and what I owe to your father. The happy life I have led here from a child, made me forgetful of the great debt until"—and here the calm voice faltered—"the reproaches of last night brought it all fresh to my mind, and I saw how ungrateful I had been to my benefactor, in giving the least encouragement to you." "Yes, I shall not soon forget the cruel insult he put upon you. It was mean and cowardly, to say the least of it. He might be proud to call you his daughter, and his daughter you shall be, in spite of him." "There are two words to that bargain," and that voice now spoke sternly and decidedly, "two voices that speak in my heart—the voice of love pleading for you; the voice of conscience, demanding of me to act rightly. Which shall I obey?" No answer was given to this appeal. The speakers came forward to the stile; the young farmer with the fork over his shoulder, with which he had been making hay; his companion, a girl of seventeen, with the rake in her hand, her broad, coarse straw hat dangling from her arm, her raven ringlets thrown back from her fine sun-burnt face, which glowed with healthy exercise. The lovers had been working together through the long June day. This was the first time that either had spoken upon a subject that was uppermost in their thoughts, which had lain like a heavy weight upon their hearts, and rendered them unusually reserved to each other. They had worked in silence and apart, expecting the explanation which they knew must come, which both wished, yet each secretly dreaded, and put off until the last moment, as if by mutual consent. The hay was all cocked, they could no longer linger in the field; and as they strolled homeward, Gilbert had broken the ice, and spoken in such an abrupt and decided manner, that it had aroused in his companion a spirit of resistance; and confirmed her in the course which, after long and painful consideration, she had determined to adopt, not to accept the hand of her lover against the wishes of his father. The young people leant for a few minutes on the stile, beneath the shade of a large ash tree—the only tree of any magnitude in the heathy lane before them. They would have made a good study for an artist, had an artist been at hand to sketch them and their surroundings. The sun had sunk behind the common fronting them, which formed a steep ridge against the horizon; and seemed to [Pg 1] [Pg 2] [Pg 3] [Pg 4] [Pg 5] separate them from the rest of the world. The road led to an old fashioned, high gabled farm-house at the foot of the hill; the only tenement visible from that lonely spot. A little brawling brook crossed the road, and threaded its silvery way through the low meadow which had been the scene of their labours; singing and prating to the flowers that bent over its tiny waves, as they wound their course down to the sandy beach, to add their mite to the vast world of waters. The sides of the lane were skirted with high furze bushes. The short strip of velvet sod that bordered the road, blue with harebells, interlaced with tufts of purple heath; and the high common glowed like an amethyst in the red rays of the setting sun. The near proximity to the sea hindered a softer growth of herbage, but the spot was not deficient in picturesque beauty; and the deep bass voice of the unseen ocean gave an additional charm to the rugged landscape. To the young and loving, nature is always beautiful in the most homely garb; and as the delicious perfume of the new mown hay floated out upon the warm evening air, our young folks, who had never known a brighter spot, thought it divine—an Eden of flowers and freshness. There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of the young farmer; but his fellow-worker possessed no ordinary share of beauty, and in her own peculiar way was a remarkable person. They were simple country folks, who had been brought up in the old house at the foot of the hill. They had spent their lives together in that secluded spot, and had been, and still were, all the world to each other. Gilbert Rushmere was the son of a well-to-do yeoman, whose forefathers had owned and cultivated the farm that extended for a hundred acres in breadth, on either side of the road, for many generations. The old family records shewed that the Rushmeres had, during the reign of the Lancastrian line of Plantagenets, been a family of considerable repute in the county of——. That Nicholas de Rushmere had been lord of the manor of Hadstone, and resided in the old baronial hall that still raised its proud head above the oak forest that skirted the western horizon, though hid from view by the steep common in front of the lane, in which his rustic descendant stood. A strong, active, young fellow, of three and twenty, was Gilbert Rushmere; with ruddy cheeks, blue eyes and homely features; the latter, however, rendered very agreeable by the frank, honest expression they wore, which had secured for him the good-will of his neighbours. Some people are born to be popular among the class to which they belong. Not so much from any merit peculiarly their own; but from inheriting from nature a happy physical temperament, a willingness to please and to be pleased, with every one with whom they fall in company. Such men are always prized more highly than they deserve; if educated, they push their way into situations of comfort and independence, with very little effort. Society likes their genial companionship, and they are favourites with, and favoured alike by young and old. Gilbert was one of those petted individuals who carry the good-will of others by storm. Young fellows in his own grade repeated his sayings and imitated his doings, and he was the chief man and oracle among them at fair or market. He had received the scanty education generally bestowed upon the sons of small yeomen at the beginning of the present century. He could read and write, and cast accounts, but in good truth, he preferred the labours of the field to poring over books, and could do a hard day's work without grudge or grumbling, could plough a straight furrow, and master a high-spirited horse; and was considered the best cricket player in the county. In the eyes of his companion—and oh! what splendid black eyes they were—he was without doubt the cleverest, handsomest, and dearest man in the world. Of Dorothy Chance—for so the young girl was called—a few words must be said, in order to explain the conversation, which the reader has overheard, between her and her lover. Fifteen years prior to the commencement of our story, Dorothy had been found by farmer Rushmere on the wild common fronting them. It was the early dawn of a bright summer day, succeeding a night of terrific storm and darkness. The farmer was abroad earlier than usual, to see if his weanling calves had sustained any injury from the down-pouring of the pitiless thunder shower. Passing through a deep hollow in the heath, his attention was drawn towards a clump of furze bushes, by the faint cries of a child. Thinking that it might belong to some neighbour, had wandered from its home, and been overtaken by the storm, he hastened to the spot. A little head suddenly appeared above the wet heather-bells, then as quickly disappeared, and all was again quiet. The frightened little one, on seeing a stranger approaching, nestled more closely into the cold bosom, on which she had slept, during the terrible tempest of the past night. "Is it a child, or a fairy?" muttered the good man, as the apparition vanished into the earth. "Here Towser!" whistling to his sheep dog, who followed close at his heels. "Find this stray lamb for thy master?" The sagacious animal pounced upon the terrified child. [Pg 5] [Pg 6] [Pg 7] [Pg 8] [Pg 9] [Pg 10] "Mamma! mamma!" screamed the frightened little one, as Rushmere tried to lift her from her hiding place, under the tattered cloak of a young woman, whose slight emaciated form lay shrouded in the wet heather. The farmer slightly stirred the prostrate sleeper with his foot. "Woman—Thou beest a sound sleeper—Wake up, and see to thy bairn, and I will gie thee both a good breakfast." The figure remained motionless. There was no answering voice or sound. The farmer stooped down, and raised the shabby bonnet from the face of the woman to examine her more carefully. He stepped hastily back, his cheeks, before so fresh and ruddy, were now blanched with a deadly pallor. The poor marble statue at his feet can no longer respond to the cries of her famishing child. She is cold, is dead. A forlorn victim of want—perhaps, of vice, overtaken by night and storm, rendered feeble by disease and famine, unable to battle with the hostile elements, has died unknown and unheeded in that lonely spot. No human ear heard her cries for help, no pitying voice soothed her last agonies. No friendly eye marked the despairing love which clutched to her chilling bosom the tender form of her sleeping child, when during the bitter conflict with death, she implored the Heavenly Father to take them both. She was still very young, not over twenty years of age; and, though squalid and dirty, and clothed with the filthy rags that vice bestows upon her degraded victims, her shrunken features retained even in death some semblance of former beauty. Her hands were small and white, and delicately formed; and seemed to have been little accustomed to hard work or out-door drudgery. A plain gold ring encircled the third finger of the left hand. There was no money in her pockets, nothing that could give the least clue to who, or what she had been. It was painfully evident to the most casual observer, that she had died of absolute starvation. Poor houseless wanderer! She had found at last a safe home—a soft bosom on which to pillow her aching head, and still the wild beatings of her breaking heart. "Bless my soul! but this is a bad business, a bad business," muttered the farmer. "I wonder how it all com'd about." The innocent child put its wasted arms around its mother's neck, and tried to awaken her with its caresses, kissing pale lips that could never kiss again, and warbling unintelligible baby language into an ear locked by eternal silence. The man's rugged nature was touched by the pitiful sight. Tears filled his eyes, as he lifted the living child from the dead bosom to which it obstinately clung. The ragged cloak, with which maternal love had endeavoured to shield its offspring from the fury of the storm, became holy as the white robe of an angel. "Poor lass I Thy last thought was for thy child. May the good Lord shew the same mercy to thee." So farmer Rushmere took the little foundling to his home, and adopted her as his child; and buried the unrecognized stranger, at his own expense, in the picturesque burying-ground of the small gothic ivy-covered church that stood on the other side of the heath. The little girl they conjectured to be between two and three years of age. She could only lisp a few broken words. All they could learn from her, in answer to their oft-repeated questions, was, that the poor dead woman was "Mammy," and that she herself was "Mammy's Dolly;" so the good man and his wife, to make sure of her being a Christian, re- baptized this stray lamb from the world's great fold, and named her Dorothy Chance. An odd and somewhat unromantic name, but very significant of the circumstances under which she was found. A fortunate chance it was that brought Dorothy beneath farmer Rushmere's roof. From that day, the good Providence that had watched over her, blessed his basket and his store, and made every undertaking to prosper in his hands. Had he found a crock of gold, the treasure would have been of less value in the homestead than the services of Dorothy proved to its inmates in after years. Mrs. Rushmere, a kind, simple-hearted woman, had but one child, a boy, some six years older than Dolly. She had always wished for a daughter, to share with her the domestic labours of the farm, and her desires had met their fulfilment when the orphan child of the vagrant was thrown into her arms. The little maid grew and prospered under her maternal care; and became the pet and darling of her adopted mother. At fifteen years of age she was able to perform all the labours required in the house, besides helping in the field during the busy seasons of hay-time and harvest. Slight in figure and graceful in all her motions, Dorothy was, nevertheless, strong and active. Sickness had never blanched the warm glow on her cheeks, or dimmed the brightness of her large, lustrous eyes. Healthy, happy, cheerful, it was a pleasure to listen to her clear ringing voice, to enter into the spirit of her joyous laugh; to feel that a creature, so free from care and guile, hovered like a good angel about your path. Without the sunshine of Dolly's presence, the old homestead would have been a gloomy prison, surrounded by that [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] [Pg 14] [Pg 15] [Pg 16] lonely desolate heath, and its inmates weary plodders along the dusty high-road of life. The Rushmeres kept no servants, male or female. The farmer and his son did all the out-door work, leaving to Mrs. Rushmere and Dolly the management of the dairy, the rearing of calves and poultry, and the spinning of flax and wool. Once a week, Dorothy drove a light tax-cart to the market town, some five miles distant, to dispose of her eggs, cheese, and butter. The excellence of these latter articles had gained for their maker quite a reputation; they always commanded the highest price, and brought no small gain to her adopted parents. Dorothy's reputation, however, was not confined to her skill as a dairy-maid; she was considered the prettiest girl in those parts; though her beauty was not a perfect model of what art has chosen for its highest types. Her eyes were dark and expressive, surmounted by a smooth forehead and black arched eyebrows, soft as velvet, and quite eastern in their hue and texture. Her nose was straight and well-formed, but the rosy mouth, full of white even teeth, and graced by two charming dimples, which continued to smile after the honest, gay peal of laughter had died away upon the dewy lips, was far too large for the required standard of female beauty. Her cheeks and chin were softly rounded and bronzed by the sun to a warm brown tint, reminding one of the rich colouring of ripe autumnal fruits. After all, the beauty which gladdened every eye lay in the expression of the whole countenance; in the harmony that reigned in every feature; which, when lighted up and animated by the spirit within, was irresistibly pleasing—a picture full of sense, goodness, and warm confiding affection. Lovers our little Dorothy had by the score, though she was never seen but at church or at market. Many a young farmer in the neighbourhood would have deemed himself a fortunate fellow, could he have persuaded Dorothy to become his wife. And Dorothy was not averse to admiration—few women are; but she was too young, and too much occupied by household matters, to cast one thought on matrimony. Her life, hitherto, had glided on so smoothly, that she was not aware that her love for Gilbert exceeded the affection that a sister might own for an elder brother, who had always treated her with tender confidence and kindness, until his importunities had suddenly awakened her to the fact, and pressed the conviction home to her heart, that they were something more than brother and sister to each other. Still, on Dorothy's part, it was more a love springing out of long association and deep-rooted esteem, than the passion generally recognised by that name. She could have given him up to another, without any very severe pang, if she thought by so doing, it would have been for his happiness. This state of things was not destined to last long. The peace of families is subject to sudden interruptions, as well as the peace of nations. The noblest qualities of the heart often have their birth amid scenes of domestic strife, as the devotion and patriotism of the soldier are strengthened by the horrors of the battle-field. Old Rushmere had raised an unreasonable persecution against his son on Dorothy's account. This circumstance had made her feel a deeper interest in Gilbert, and had quickened her friendship into love. Though good and worthy in his way, the old man was avaricious, and possessed an enormous amount of family pride. This latter quality was based, not upon the position in the county which his family then held, but upon that which it had once occupied. Gilbert was his only child, the last of the old stock; and he cherished a parental hope, that his boy, by industry and a wealthy marriage, might restore its ancient respectability. Such dreams, however improbable of fulfilment, are natural enough. He loved Dorothy, but he did not wish her to be Gilbert's wife; he regarded her in the light of a daughter, knew her worth, and the advantage of her presence in the house; but expected Gilbert to feel no deeper interest in her than that of a sister, and was quite indignant that he would not acknowledge an imaginary tie of kindred. He had been a prudent, hard-working man himself; and though Heath Farm was not remarkable for the goodness of its soil, consisting mostly of wild, uncultivated heath land, he had contrived to lay by a handsome sum of money, and hoped to see his son one day a gentleman. And what was Dorothy? Perhaps the bastard of a beggar. Such an alliance was not to be tolerated for a moment, in connection with the last scion of his name and race. Rushmere blamed his innocent wife for having encouraged the growing attachment between Gilbert and Dorothy, in no measured terms of displeasure; and having caught this disobedient son in the very act of kissing the ruby lips of the orphan, he told him in hot anger before her face —"That if he persevered in that nonsense, he would cut him off with a shilling; and turn her out of the house to find a living on the heath where he first picked her up." The good wife remonstrated. In the humour her spouse was then in she had better have remained silent—she told him, that he was harsh and unjust. I am afraid she called him a fool, for abusing the young people after that fashion—she insisted that Dorothy was the best girl in the county; that she loved her as her own life; that Gilly was a wise man in wishing to secure such an excellent wife; that he might search England through, and not meet with such a bonny lass; that she would rejoice at their marriage, and give them her blessing with all her heart. This praise of her favourite, though quite sincere on Mrs. Rushmere's part, and fully merited by Dorothy, was very impolitic at such a moment; it exasperated the angry old man, and made matters worse. Gilbert, backed by the imprudence of his mother, did worse. He made use of very violent language to his father, and said and did many undutiful things. [Pg 17] [Pg 18] [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] [Pg 22] [Pg 23] "He was a man," he said, "and of age to please himself—he meant to be his own master—he did not care a fig for his father's opinions and prejudices, and he would marry Dorothy, whether he liked it or not." There is no knowing how the quarrel might have terminated—for Rushmere was an obstinate, self-willed man like his son—had not the innocent cause of the disturbance, instead of crying and wringing her hands, or dropping down at his feet in a dead faint, like any other heroine of romance, quietly stepped up to the exasperated farmer, and, laying her hand upon his arm, said in her pleasant, cheerful voice. "Don't be afraid, father. He shan't marry me without your consent, so don't be angry and abuse us all; for which you will be sorry an hour hence. Listen now to me. I love Gilbert. I believe that he loves me. I love you and mother also. I do not intend to vex or grieve you by any conduct of mine; nor do I mean to leave you, now you are both infirm and old. I am young and strong, and better able to work than you are. If you turn me out of the house by one door, I will come in at the other. I owe you a large debt of gratitude, which I want to work out—so do not talk of sending me away. God gave you to me for parents. I have no other, nor friends beside you in the wide world." Her lips quivered, but, quickly regaining her composure, she went on. "Hear me, father, while I promise you faithfully, before God and you all—and you know, father, I never told you a lie—that I will not marry Gilbert without your consent and approbation—your full, free, hearty consent." She held out her hand—"Will that satisfy you?" Obstinate as he was, the girl's frank honesty conquered the angry old man. He took the proffered peace-offering, and shook it warmly. "Ay, lass! I will e'en take thee at thy word. You are more dutiful than yon chap. I cannot so easily forgive him." "But you must forgive him, father. Angry people are not aware of all the hard things they say to each other." "True for you, girl. I have naught to say agin you, Dolly; I might get a worse daughter. But there are some ugly drawbacks to that bargain." "Don't name them, father,"—and Dorothy raised her small hand beseechingly. "I know them well enough,"—tears now glistened in her eyes, she turned her head away,—"I never felt that I was so poor and friendless before." Then kissing the old man, she ran out of the room. Gilbert's "O shame, father," and Mrs. Rushmere's "God bless the dear child," following her hasty retreat. Dorothy was deeply moved, but was only too glad to be the means of restoring peace to the belligerents she had left. It was a few days after the bursting of this domestic thunder-cloud, that Gilbert and Dorothy were thrown alone together. Mr. Rushmere had been called away to the town on business, and the lovers had been working all day in the hay-field. Gilbert was not at all satisfied with the promise Dolly had given to his father; he thought himself slighted and ill-used. He had been anxiously watching for an opportunity to talk it all over. Dorothy, anticipating his intentions, had carefully kept aloof. There was no getting out of the way now, and she was forced to listen to the renewal of his suit; and to parry, in the best way she could, his passionate appeals to her to revoke the promise she had given to his father. They walked silently down the lane together, Gilbert sullen and mortified, Dorothy pitying but resolute. Gilbert at last spoke. "If you loved me, Dolly, you could not talk about it in that cool way, and sacrifice my happiness to gratify my father's foolish pride." "I mean to keep my word, Gilly. We are both young. We can afford to wait." "A pleasant prospect, truly." "Is it not better than disobeying your parents, or my leaving them, which I must do, if you continue to press me on this subject." "Dorothy, Dorothy! how cold you are. Now don't preach, and talk to me about duty and patience, and all that. I can't stand such cant, when my heart is breaking. How can I hold my peace?" "Then you wish me to go?" "Dolly! do you mean to drive me mad?" "Not quite—I think you would be dangerous,"—and Dorothy laughed merrily. Gilbert winced at the joke. She did not wish to provoke him to anger, but to make him see things in a more cheerful light. "Gilly," she continued, quite serious now, "do you not see the necessity of yielding to your father's wishes? It is the only way by which you can even hope to see me your wife. He will surely separate us if you obstinately resist his will. Think how painful it would be to part. How dear mother would grieve after her little Dolly—to say nothing of Gilbert,"—with a sly bewitching glance. "Mother could not do without me. She could not manage the dairy, and do all the housework alone. Your father will [Pg 24] [Pg 25] [Pg 26] [Pg 27] [Pg 28] come round by and by. He is sometimes stern, and appears unfeeling, but you know that in the main he has a kind heart. No good can come from opposing him. If you forget your duty, I must not forget mine. Your father wants you to marry a rich wife, as I told you before,—not a poor girl, who has not even a name that she can lawfully call her own." "I can remedy that evil, Dorothy, by giving you mine." "A gift that will be joyfully accepted, Gilly, when seconded by your father's approval. Till that can be obtained, let us talk of something else." "This subject is nearest my heart. I have no words for any other." He looked upon her bright face, a dubious expression flittering over his own. "Old men can't live for ever—he may die!—I shall then be free to please myself." Dorothy was shocked. She waved her hands impatiently. "Don't talk of his death. It is dreadful to anticipate happiness from such a sad event. Father is as likely to live as either of us—is hale and strong—with a back unbent, and a step as firm as your own. Oh, Gilbert, I did not think that you were so selfish. I love the dear old man. God grant that he may live for twenty years!" "And you expect me to remain single all that time, Dolly,—do you call that reasonable? I will not do it, even to please you." "Do not wait for me, Gilly, if you can get a better chance," said Dorothy, striving to call up a smile upon his gloomy face. Her lover was in no laughing humour. "Provoking girl. I cannot make you understand the state of my feelings. I shall die, Dolly, if you cruelly persist in refusing to be my wife." "Of love! Gilbert?" This was said with a comical air of doubt, and a half smile, which sent a ripple of laughter over the charming face. "Ay, lass—of love." The ripple now broke into a wave of joyous merriment. "Gilly, did you ever know a man or woman that died for love?" The lover looked puzzled. "I can't exactly say that I have. I have heard of such unfortunates—have seen chaps very miserable about their sweethearts, when they were contrary, or were fond of some one else—and have read about it in books." "Do you believe everything you read in books, Gilbert?" "To be sure I do—what were they written for else? Do you think that a sensible man would waste paper and ink, and his precious time in printing off lies?" "I am certain, Gilly, that some books are only written to make people laugh. I am no scholar, and can't read half as well as you, yet I know that much. Do you think the book you were reading out to father the other night—the one you know that you bought of the pedlar—all about the little men and women with the hard names—was a real history?" "Gulliver's Travels." "Do you believe that true?" "Of course I do." Dorothy clapped her hands and laughed heartily. "You ought to be a good Christian, Gilbert." "Why, lass?" "For great is your faith. But—hark!—is not that the old clock in the kitchen clapping seven? We must not stand here gossipping any longer, or father will be after us to hurry our motions. Mother has the supper ready by this time. If you are not hungry, I am. I have not yet found out the way to live upon love." "Oh, Dolly!" sighed the young man. Dorothy, already out of hearing, had vanished into the old-fashioned house at the bottom of the hill. CHAPTER II. HEATH FARM. The farm-house was one of those quaint, picturesque old buildings, which have long ago vanished from our public [Pg 29] [Pg 30] [Pg 31] [Pg 32] [Pg 33] thoroughfares, and is only to be found in remote rural districts, approached by narrow cross-roads. Its high gables and chimneys, its bay windows, projecting several feet beyond the wall, and filled with diamonded panes of glass set in lead, and guarded by heavy iron stanchions, told a tale of past centuries, and carried you back to the feudal times, when every man's house was literally his castle, and presented a hostile front to the traveller. A pointed porch, composed of very small dark red bricks, grey and rusty looking from the lichens which encrusted them, sheltered the front entrance from the bleak easterly winds, which swept over a long range of salt marshes, from the sea. A massy oak door opened from the porch, into a long square hall, paved with broad flag stones, in which the family generally assembled to take their meals. Through that ancient doorway a band of Cromwell's soldiers had once passed, and been regaled at the huge oak table that held the centre of the floor. Silver flagons had foamed with nut-brown ale; and "success to the brave defenders of England's rights—and confusion to all tyrants"—had been drank 'mid uproarious shouts, that made the old rafters overhead, ring again. Sir Lawrence Rushmere, the head of the family in those days, had been a person of some importance during the great struggle that revolutionized England, and laid the foundation of her present greatness. A staunch adherent of the stern Protector, he had furnished a number of horses and arms at his own cost, for the use of the Commonwealth, and brought his own strong arm and stout heart to advocate the good cause. For the active part he took in the contest, his descendants had to suffer no small amount of robbery and wrong after the Restoration. The larger portion of their estates were forfeited to the crown; and the old house and two hundred acres of poor heathy waste land was all that remained to the impoverished family. The old dining-hall had shared in the general decay, and been shorn of all its ancient honours. Like the cobbler's stall in the old song, it served the present occupants for "kitchen and parlour and all." It was the room of general resort, into which all the offices pertaining to the farm opened, and in which all the lighter labours of the house, such as spinning and weaving, were carried on. A small, dark, highly-polished spinning-wheel, such as is used in the eastern counties for converting the fine white flax into thread, occupied a conspicuous place along the wall; and, during the short winter days, kept up a perpetual whirring sound, which formed a pleasant accompaniment to the gay blithe voice of Dorothy, as she sang some local ditty, while the fine thread grew beneath her fingers. The wide fire-place nearly extended across the upper end of the hall, with its broad hearth-stone, huge iron crank, and hooks, bright brass dogs, and white brick settles, telling of warm yule fires, and abundance of country cheer. A practical illustration of the same might be seen in the rows of fat hams, and rounds of hung beef that dangled from the beams that crossed the low ceiling: interspersed with strings of onions and savory pot-herbs—and, as if by way of variety, separated by hanks of white and coloured yarn. A picture in oils, painted upon wood, and by no means a bad specimen of the arts, hung over the carved oak mantel— the half-length portrait of a fine soldierly looking man. This is the soldier of the covenant—the grim Roundhead, Sir Lawrence Rushmere—for so his enemies called him. Look at him well. His bold honest English face deserves a nearer scrutiny. Examine his broad brows, his large clear blue eyes, his firm nose, and resolute mouth, before you call that man a traitor. He has drawn the sword he holds in his hand in what, after mature consideration, he considers the right cause, and being once fully convinced that it is so, has thrown his whole heart and soul into the struggle. If you can overturn a rock whose roots are embedded in the depths of ocean, you may hope to turn him from his purpose. This old family portrait is held in great reverence by his last descendant, who bears his name; and though degenerated into a rude half educated tiller of the ancestral acres, Lawrence Rushmere thinks himself a great man, while looking upon the noble portrait of his remote progenitor. The old high-backed arm-chair, so richly carved, in which the farmer smokes his pipe after the labours of the day are over, is always placed fronting that picture. He sees a great resemblance between himself and the brave soldier of the covenant, and draws the attention of every stranger that comes to the house to the picture, by asking, "if they do not remark the likeness?" A harmless vanity, which amuses without giving offence, and he generally ends by saying, "Yes, Sir. That brave knight was my great, great grandfather, and he has often sat in this very chair in which I am sitting now. It shall never go out of the family while there's a Rushmere left to fill his place." Look at those long rows of pewter dishes and platters that grace the shelves. These too are relics of a former age. No doubt the said Sir Lawrence has taken many a good dinner off them. Yet no one points them out as objects worthy of notice, though they are kept as bright and clean as if required for daily use. They have been completely laid upon the shelf half a century ago. The rest of the furniture of the room is as old as the Protectorate; especially that large Venetian mirror, in its beautiful [Pg 34] [Pg 35] [Pg 36] [Pg 37] [Pg 38] [Pg 39] frame of ebony. What a prize for a modern antiquary. Poor simple Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy have not the most remote idea of its value. The old lady thinks it a very becoming glass, which makes people look much handsomer than they really are, and Dorothy contemplates her sweet face in its mysterious depths, and speculates on all who have done the same, and wishes that she could call the sleepers from their graves, and make them pass in review before her. What a multitude of strange faces, and still stranger fashions, they would bring again to light! Dorothy sometimes pursues this idea, till she grows afraid of her own conceit, and turns away from the mirror, as if she really saw the spectres she had conjured up. But the crowning glory of the place is a large dome-shaped cupboard, which fits into a corner of the spacious room, and fills it from the floor to the ceiling. It opens with a single door, the outside of which is a fine picture by some old master, representing the judgment of Solomon. The reverse side, when the door is opened suddenly, calls forth a cry of surprise, and not unusually of terror, from the spectator. There stands our first father, in the naked deformity of sin, in the very act of eating the forbidden fruit, with a face so full of remorse and agony, that it chills the heart of the gazer with its unmitigated horror. Though used to this terrible picture from a child, Dorothy could never look at it without a shudder. When Gilbert and she were children, and behaved amiss, Mrs. Rushmere had only to threaten to shut them up in the cupboard with father Adam, and it brought them instantly to their senses. The shelves of this mysterious piece of furniture were filled with Japan china. Real "chaney"—as good Mrs. Rushmere called it—which, like the ebony-framed mirror, had belonged to the family in its bygone days of wealth and importance. These gorgeous tea-cups were never used but on high-days and holidays, or on the advent of any particular visitors. Such an unusual event had just taken place, and a mild looking old lady, in a plaited cap and brown stuff gown, was going to and fro, from the open cupboard to the table, arranging some of the exquisite china cups and saucers on a carved wooden tray, and bringing sundry delicate cakes and biscuits, of Dorothy's own making, from their hidden receptacles, to do honour to the evening meal. The table was covered with a snow-white damask cloth, manufactured by the same skilful hands, and boasted a good supply of fine wheaten bread, and the fresh cheese and butter, for which the Heath Farm had become famous, under the said damsel's superintendence. The guest for whose especial benefit all these preparations were made, was a very great person indeed—at least, in the eyes of these simple country folk—and Mrs. Rushmere was all fuss and excitement to set before her the very best the house afforded. Stephen Watling, a near neighbour and landed proprietor, whose farm joined their own, had died suddenly, in the very prime of life, a few weeks before, and his only sister had come into possession of the property. From keeping her brother's house, she had become the mistress of it in her own right, and merged plain Nancy into Miss Watling, or as her country neighbours said, "Had put on her Sunday gown, and had nothing to do now but hold up her head high, and sup her soup out of a silver spoon." The heiress was not a very prepossessing looking individual. The sudden acquirement of wealth had served to increase an innate vulgarity, rendered more conspicuous by an arrogant assumption of superiority. She affected airs of consequence, which made her company everything but agreeable to those who had known her in a subordinate situation. Miss Watling was on the wrong side of thirty, bony and sharp featured, with small and snaky looking black eyes, a sallow complexion, loud voice, and most repulsive manners. Her affectation of extreme youth was so absurdly ridiculous, that it made her appear older and uglier than she really was. Ever since her unexpected good fortune, Mr. Rushmere had secretly contemplated Miss Watling as a very eligible wife for his son. He had not as yet dared to broach the subject to that refractory individual, as he dreaded no small amount of opposition—or even to hint at it to his wife, who, he well knew, favoured his attachment to Dorothy, and with whom the rich spinster was no favourite; but he was thinking it over all day long, and calculating the worldly advantages to be derived from the union of the two estates. It would make Gilbert a rich man at once. As to the difference of age, that was a mere trifle, more than counterbalanced by the lady's superior wealth. True, she was very plain—he could not deny that—but beauty, after all, was only skin deep, and would not, according to the homely adage, "buy beef." His son was a handsome young fellow, and he felt certain that Miss Watling was not indifferent to his personal attractions. It would be a capital match, and his son would be a downright fool to let such an opportunity of securing a rich wife slip through his fingers. Thus age and avarice can always over-leap barriers which, to the young and romantic, are insurmountable. [Pg 40] [Pg 41] [Pg 42] [Pg 43] [Pg 44] [Pg 45] From the master of Heath Farm Miss Watling received the most cordial welcome, and was easily persuaded to lay aside her bonnet and shawl, and take tea with the family. To judge of the lady's grief by the ultra blackness of her mourning garments, you would have supposed that no gleam of joy could ever enter her afflicted heart again. All crape and bombazine from head to foot, she presented to the spectator a ghastly exterior of hopeless sorrow. "And so poor Stephen is gone," said the simple Mrs. Rushmere. "Who would have thought of his leaving us so suddenly? The last time he was here he looked the picture of health and contentment. Well, well,—we must all go some of these days. But the death of such as he—it seems so shocking. A man in the very prime of life—it is surely a great loss to the parish. You, Nancy, who were his only relative, must feel it sorely. The house must be very lonesome to you, wanting the master." "It was dreadful, Mrs. Rushmere, to be taken without a minute's warning, to think of his poor neglected soul. He never cared about religion. He was so entirely taken up with his worldly concerns, it makes me very uncomfortable to think what may become of him in the other world," said the bereaved sister. "God is merciful," sighed the old lady. "It is of no use trusting to mercy, without repentance," was the sharp rejoinder, "and he had no time for that." "He was a kind man to the poor, Nancy. A good neighbour and a regular church-goer, honest and industrious—let us hope that these qualities will be taken into account. It is not for sinful creatures like us to condemn a man, because it pleased the Almighty to call him suddenly out of the world." "Works—mere works," and Miss Watling shrugged her shoulders emphatically. "For my part, I have no hope of his salvation. If he had faith, he put his light under a bushel, for no one in the house ever saw it. But he is gone, and has left me, a young unprotected female, to struggle alone in this wicked world." "Why, surely, Nancy, you be old enough to take care of yourself?" returned the good woman, with more truth in her look and accent than was agreeable to her visitor. "You be some years older than he." "You are mistaken, ma'am," said Miss Watling, "he was a grown up man when I was a little girl at school." "Oh, my dear!" cried the provoking old lady, "it is of no use your telling me that. Why, don't I know all about it. I was with your mother when you were born. It is just thirty-five years ago, last May. You were a sharp cross little thing, and you gave your mother a world of trouble. I have often heard her say, that she never had the sound of your crying out of her ears, or got a whole night's rest, for the two first years of your life. You were turned of six before Stephen was born. You pouted and sulked, and had a great fight with nurse, for bringing a nasty boy into the house. Don't I remember it all, and how your father laughed at your tantrums. "'Little maid's jealous of boy,' he said, 'she won't have it all her own way now.'" Mrs. Rushmere had touched a tender point. She knew that her visitor was dreadfully sensitive about her age; but she was so much disgusted with the unfeeling piece of cant, in which she had just indulged about her brother, that she did it to punish her for her cruelty and hypocrisy. "You have an excellent memory," said Miss Watling, wincing under the infliction. "Such reminiscences, however, are neither polite nor agreeable. It would be unbecoming in me to contradict so old a woman as you, for it is impossible for me to recall events which happened in my infancy." Miss Watling was angry, but she kept in her wrath. She had no intention of quarrelling with the Rushmeres. She swallowed that bitter pill about her age in the best way she could, and anxious to get rid of the disagreeable dispute, in which she was sure to come off second best, she asked Mrs. Rushmere how she liked her mourning. "The bombazine," she observed, "is very fine—the crape, the best I could procure in Storby. As I had to go into mourning for Stephen, I thought I would do the thing genteelly. Besides, shabby black is so mean and unbecoming." Mrs. Rushmere glanced coldly at the crape scarf her visitor held up for her inspection. "It does well enough for those who wear their grief upon their sleeve. One little bit of heart mourning is worth it all." Before the wearer of the sables could frame a reply, Dorothy opened the door and looked into the room, but quickly withdrew her head, when she saw by whom it was occupied. Mrs. Rushmere followed her to the door. "Where is Gilly?" "Just cleaning himself up a bit, and changing his working slop. He will be here in a minute. Don't wait for me, mother. I have the cows to milk. I can get my supper by and by." The owner of the bright face vanished, Mrs. Rushmere poured out the tea, and the small party gathered about the table. Gilbert came in presently—glanced coldly at the visitor, made a stiff country bow, and took a seat by his mother, and as far from Miss Watling as he possibly could. He never had liked her when plain Miss Nancy, but since she had got a [Pg 46] [Pg 47] [Pg 48] [Pg 49] [Pg 50] [Pg 51] handle to her name, her airs and affectations had filled him with disgust. "Do you suffer that young person, Mrs. Rushmere, to call you mother?" asked Miss Watling, with a sneer upon her thin upper lip. "Surely it is taking too great a liberty." "Oh, not at all. You forget, Nancy, that she is my adopted daughter, that I look upon her as my own child. The dear knows I could not love her better if she were." "Well, my dear madam, there's no accounting for tastes." Nancy Watling thought that it was her turn to say something spiteful. "I see nothing to admire in that girl. Is she not the beggar's brat that Mr. Rushmere picked up upon the heath?" "So she be," muttered Lawrence, half aloud from his own chair. "No fault of hers," said Gilbert, flushing up. "She has beauty and sense enough to have been the daughter of a king." "Rather a vulgar princess," giggled Miss Watling. "She looks what she was born to be—a servant!" His mother caught the flash of her son's eye, and pinched his knee under the table, to keep him quiet; then finding that her hint was not likely to cool down his rising passion, and hearing a pet cat mewing for a morsel of the repast, she screamed out— "Mind, Gilly! you great blundering fellow. You have trod on pussy's tail, and she will be sure to scratch you." "I'll take good care of that," said Gilbert, deceived by his mother's innocent stratagem, "by turning her out of the room. Dolly has made such a pet of that beast, she has become quite a nuisance." He rose and put out the unoffending cat, and peace was once more restored. The farmer, who had been sitting upon thorns during the dispute, inwardly cursing his wife's want of tact and plainness of speech, and his son's rudeness, thought it high time to put in a word or two, and direct the conversation into a new channel. "What do you intend to do with the farm, Nancy? Will you let it, or carry on the business yourself?" "Well, my old friend," said Miss Watling, folding her hands in her lap, and looking down demurely, "that is the difficulty. I am exceedingly puzzled what to do. I came here this afternoon on purpose to consult you, though I knew what a busy time it was with you during the hay harvest. I am so young and inexperienced, and so ignorant of agricultural matters, I should make a poor farmer. I know nothing about cropping lands, milking, or churning. I was given an education quite above such pursuits." Gilbert glanced up from the tea-cup he held in his hand, a comical smile passing over his face, though he said nothing. Miss Watling seemed to interpret his thoughts, for she positively looked down and blushed. Did she forget, at that moment, how often Gilbert had helped her, when a boy, to drive home the cows from the salt marshes, and sat and whistled on the meadow stile, while she milked them—or was she conscious of uttering an untruth? Gilbert was determined to plague her a little, by jogging her memory. "Nancy," he said, "you do yourself great injustice. If you don't understand the farm business, I don't know who does. Why, you were always considered the best spinner and weaver in the parish. Remember how often you used to scold me for tangling the yarn, when you were spinning on the great wheel. I was mortally afraid of the big thrashings you threatened me with, and trusted more to my heels than to your generosity and forbearance. Those were jolly times. I wonder you can so easily forget them, and try to thrust such nonsensical fibs down our throats." This sally drew forth a general laugh, in which Miss Watling joined as heartily as the rest. "Gilbert do you call that good manners, to contradict a lady? Where, sir, did you get your schooling?" said the former sharply. "Among simple country folk, father. I did not mean to contradict Nancy, only to remind her of past times." "Oh, I don't mind what he says, Mr. Rushmere. He was always a saucy boy," returned the lady, striving to smile pleasantly. "She takes it better than I expected," thought Gilbert. "It is as good as a play to hear her attempt to act the fine lady. How polite fath...